Johnny Kavanagh had kissed a handful of girls and smiled through half a dozen flings, but none of them ever stuck — not when she was around.

It was stupid, really, how easy it was to stand beside her and feel both completely whole and hopelessly lacking all at once. Tonight was no different. She was sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, wearing his oldest hoodie, hair scraped into a messy knot, flipping through an old photo album she’d found buried in his wardrobe.

“God, look at your fringe here —” she giggled, tapping a baby photo with her nail. She didn’t look up when she said it, but Johnny did. He always did.

He leaned back against his bed, half a beer in his hand, half a heartbeat away from blurting out every reckless thing stuck behind his teeth. I love you. I think about you when I shouldn’t. I can’t look at your mouth and not want it.

But instead, he just watched her. The way she smiled at his baby pictures like she’d been there for every moment. In some ways, she had.

He’d been a boy the first time she held his hand — tiny and sticky with juice at a school playground. Now he was a man, broad-shouldered and bruised from rugby, and her touch would still undo him just as easily.

“You’re staring again, Johnny,” she teased without lifting her eyes.

He swallowed, grinned crookedly. “Can you blame me?”

She snorted, flipping to the next page. She didn’t see how his fingers twitched like they wanted to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, how his eyes softened at the sight of her in his clothes, in his room, feeling like home without ever promising to stay.

He’d wait. He’d yearn. Because if anyone was worth the ache in his chest, it was her. And when — if — she ever turned that soft smile on him like she meant it, Johnny Kavanagh would be ready.

God, he’d earn her a thousand times over.